Love, Unleashed
by WRTRD
Summary: Rick Castle has finally found the way to win Kate Beckett's heart. He's sure of it. Set shortly after 4x13, "An Embarrassment of Bitches." Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Richard Castle's brain is buzzing, and not just because he's sitting, feet up on his office desk, nursing an excellent Scotch. Terrible puns and thematic similes are chasing themselves around in his head, nipping at each other like Jack Russells (there's one). Apparently this is what happens to your mind when you can't think straight, when you've got a case of very, very grown-up puppy love (oh, God). Good thing he's not trying to write, because it would be nothing but doggerel (there's another).

When it comes to Beckett, he's a persistent guy. Dogged (ditto), even. He's been dogging her footsteps (yup) for years, though she'd probably say that it's more like hounding (that's six). But son of a bitch (stop!), could it have been this easy, all the time? The Mystery of Katherine Beckett? If only he had known then what he knows now, he'd have cracked the case, gotten the collar (oh, yeah), ages ago: the way to her heart is a _dog_.

Man's best friend is woman's. Doggone it (heh), he knows. He's positive. After he dropped off Royal, who had belonged to the vic in their most recent case, he overheard every word that she said to the pooch. True, he was standing outside her door, eavesdropping. Still, he heard her squeak Mr. Squeaky and call the dog, clearly inviting him to join her on to the couch. He's man enough to admit that he felt jealous when he heard her coo, "You're so cute." When they closed the case yesterday, she was calling Royal right there in the bullpen, trying to win him over. Castle saw the disappointment in her eyes when Royal left with Kay Cappuccio, even though she said it was probably for the best, that there was no one home at her place to play with him.

Well, he's here to volunteer. Ready to play, anytime. Because it's time. He knows her soft spot and he's going for it.

Valentine's Day is three weeks away and he's working on a plan. Right now, it's his own personal Dog Day Afternoon, minus the robbery or hostages. The only thing he's plotting to steal is her heart. Geez, this corniness has got to stop, but he can't help it, not when his computer screen is filled with pictures of puppies and he's imagining Beckett with one of them in her lap. And him next to her. Very next to her. Maybe even the dog in her lap, and both of them in his.

He picks up the phone, setting the first part of his plan in motion, and calls her.

"Hey, Castle."

"Hey, Beckett."

"What's up?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just, I'm missing Royal, aren't you? He's such a great dog."

"Yeah, he is."

"I really like golden retrievers."

"Me, too."

Okay, check golden retriever on his master list of Possible Breeds.

"If you had a dog, is that what you'd get?"

"Maybe something smaller. I don't have a zillion-square-foot apartment like you."

"Like what?"

"What?"

"What kind of dog?"

"Why?"

Uh-oh, maybe this isn't going to be as easy as he'd thought. Should have known she'd go all investigative on him.

"Just wondering. Thinking I might get a dog, since Alexis will be going to college in a few months and it'll be lonely around here."

"That's sweet."

He doesn't want sweet, he wants answers.

"Maybe I should go the small-dog route, too, you know. Better in the city. What do you think?"

"It's your dog, Castle."

Shit.

"Well, yeah, but if you were me, what breed would you look at?"

"Terrier. They never let go of anything, either."

"Very funny, Beckett."

"Trying to be helpful."

Might as well just ask directly, what the hell. "You have a favorite?"

"Terrier?"

"A favorite favorite. Not something you're comparing to me."

There's silence for a while. He thinks he can hear her swallowing.

"Dachshund. My favorite dog book when I was little was _Pretzel_ , about a dachshund. Must have read it a thousand times."

"Really? I don't know that one."

"It's adorable. By the Reys, you know, the _Curious George_ couple."

He writes DACHSHUND, all capital letters, on his master list.

"Must be great, then. You still have it?"

Another silence. Uh-oh.

"It blew up. With my apartment."

"Oh, Beckett, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to bring up something painful."

" 's okay. I'm over it."

"Well, still, I'm sorry. Hey, gotta go, just saw the time. I'm, uh, meeting my mother in, uh, fifteen minutes."

"See ya, Castle."

"See ya."

Not so hard after all. He can scrap the master list because there's only one dog on it now—until a quick search turns that one into six. Who knew dachshunds came in three varieties? Smooth-, long- or wire-haired, and two basic sizes, miniature and standard. Oh, God, the six just ballooned to some huge number. It seems that dachshunds come in a multitude of colors and patterns, too.

He sits up straight. Aha! Back to one. All he needs is a real-life Pretzel. He looks up the book and quickly finds that the dog is red and smooth-haired. Choice made. Except that Pretzel is also billed as the world's longest dachshund, which probably isn't a good thing. A standard would be good, though, right? Not that there will be anything standard about Beckett's dog. Absolutely not.

Castle spends the next several hours giving himself a college-worthy education in dachshund. He's found one of the world top breeders just an hour away, who even has a litter almost ready to go. He's about to make an appointment to drive out to see the puppies when an article catches his eye: rescues. He reads it. And then he reads it again. Forget the breeder. Beckett would kill him when she found out what he paid, anyway. But a rescue? How could she resist?

He uses all his spare time during the next week looking for a dog. When a new homicide requires them to spend a considerable amount of time outside, he's thrilled, despite the single-digit temperatures. He misses no opportunity to comment on any dog within 50 feet of them.

"Look at that little guy!" he says, nudging Beckett as they trudge through several more inches of new snow and see a Scottie at the corner, wrapped in a plaid jacket. "And his coat? How cute is that coat?"

"How cute is that coat?" Esposito repeats in a cloud of horror, overlaid with icy contempt. "Could you be a little more manly, Castle?"

"Just making an observation, Espo. Man and his dog, boy and his dog, a tradition that goes back centuries."

"You ain't been a boy in years."

"Tell that to Beckett. She's always calling me a child."

He's close enough to feel her inaudible chuckle. "It's true, I do," she says. He's pretty sure she's trying not to smile.

Eight days after he began what he calls his Press for Pretzel, he finds what he has been looking for.

In Akron, Ohio.

The dog is fourteen weeks old. A family in the area had bought him from a pet store at Christmas, and discovered after a few days that having a toddler, a new baby, and a puppy was one element too much. They had asked the vet to take him; fortunately neither child was old enough to have been scarred by the dog's disappearance.

He talks to the veterinarian. Skypes. Presents his bona fides. When he discovers that the receptionist is a hard-core fan of both Derrick Storm and Nikki Heat, he shamelessly overnights the newest book, signed with a message of deepest, deepest appreciation. The dog is his.

Or rather, Beckett's. Soon.

Late Thursday afternoon, when he's putting on his coat, Beckett looks up from her desk. "So you're not coming in tomorrow?"

"Afraid I can't," he says honestly, having arranged to take the earliest Friday morning flight to Cleveland and then make the 45-minute drive to Akron in a rental car. "I have an all-day meeting." It's the truth, sort of. He'll be spending much of the day meeting the dog. And the vet. And the hard-core fan receptionist.

"Have a nice weekend, Castle."

"You, too, Beckett."

He takes off in the dark on a 5:59 flight, his only baggage a soft-sided carrier that is currently empty but will be full of puppy on the afternoon flight home. Snow is thick on the ground, but the highway is perfectly plowed, and after stopping for coffee, a bag of doughnuts ("Akron's Finest Since 1959!" the sign promises; he hopes the doughnuts are a few hours old, at most, not celebrating their fifty-third birthday), and a bouquet of roses, he pulls into the vet's office at 9:30 a.m.

He's in luck. The only person in the waiting room, an over-fed woman with an equally over-fed cat, is being shown into an exam room, leaving only the receptionist.

"Monique?" he asks, as though he weren't entirely certain of the identity of Northern Ohio's greatest Richard Castle fan. "Hi," he says, offering up the dozen long-stemmed reds. "I'm Rick Castle. So happy to meet you."

He suspects that she's blushing but it's hard to tell, given the Plumberry Glow—not for nothing is he the attentive father of a teenage girl—that is already heavily dusting her cheeks.

"Mr. Castle," she says, pumping his hand enthusiastically and half-rising from her chair. "For me?" With that question, her other hand floats gently to her pillowy chest as she eyes the bouquet.

"For you," he confirms, giving a courtly bow. "It's a token of my gratitude for all the help you've given me over the adoption. May I meet him?"

"Oh, yes. I'll just phone to the back and have Johnny bring Pretzel out. We started calling him that so he'd be used to the name by the time you came."

"That was so nice, thank you. What did his name used to be?"

"Snoopy," she says, barely concealing her disgust.

"Are you kidding?" Castle asks. "Everyone knows Snoopy is a beagle."

"Got that right," Monique replies, conspiratorially.

Their chuckle fest ends with the arrival of Johnny and the squirmy puppy. Castle offers the bag of doughnuts to Johnny, explaining that "they're for everyone in the back, at least the ones with two legs, not four," then drops to the floor and extends his hand to the dog for sniffing purposes. Pretzel immediately climbs onto his lap and licks him.

"Looks like you have another fan in Akron," Monique says.

Castle beams. Not long after that the vet, Ann Campbell, is ready to meet him, and they go over Pretzel's paperwork, diet and everything else that either of them can consider. By the time he leaves, having posed for infinite numbers of photos with Monique, he's already wondering if he can share custody of Pretzel with Beckett. Or…But he's getting ahead of himself.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

One advantage of flying first class is that if you have a dog under your seat, in his carrier, the flight attendants often look the other way if you take him out and hold him on your lap. Marla, who's currently dancing attendance on Castle, is technically looking the other way, but in fact she's looking right at Pretzel and talking to him as if he were a baby, a human baby.

On the first pass, she tickles him under the chin. "Aren't you a little sweetheart!"

Delivering a glass of juice and a bowl of mixed nuts to Castle, she asks, "How hold is the little guy?"

"Fourteen weeks," he answers, wondering why he feels proud.

"Aw, he'll be a heartbreaker when he grows up."

"Already is," Castle says, as bashful as he's ever been in his life.

Ten minutes later, Marla cruises by again and pats Pretzel on the head: "Who's a good boy?"

Somewhere over eastern Pennsylvania: "Oh, look at those beautiful brown eyes. Are you Daddy's little boy?"

Well, no, Castle thinks, since 1) Daddy has blue eyes and 2) he's not actually Daddy, though he appreciates the sentiment.

When the plane begins its descent, he tucks the dog back in his carrier and puts him back on the floor next to his feet. Pretzel looks forlornly at him through the soft mesh. "Now I know what Beckett means about puppy-dog eyes," Castle thinks, with a modicum of guilt.

Since he doesn't want to stand in the taxi line and expose Pretzel to the bitter cold, he called ahead for a car. The driver is waiting inside the terminal and as soon as Castle has buckled his seatbelt he unzips the carrier and settles the dog on his lap. Pretzel stands on his short hind legs, bracing his front paws against the padded door, and watches intently through the window. "Take a good look, kiddo. This is your city now. Cool, huh?"

Pretzel turns around, makes an unidentifiable but endearing snuffling sound, and nuzzles Castle's palm.

"You're adorable." He contemplates his companion's velvety ears and wet nose. "Oh, God, I'm a total goner."

When they reach Broome Street, he decides to take a short walk around the neighborhood. The dog—dressed in one of four sweaters that Castle had bought earlier in the week—needs to go out after being cooped up in a plane, and Castle wants to introduce him to the olfactory smorgasbord that is a Manhattan sidewalk. This proves to be far more challenging than he had expected, as he hauls Pretzel away from one grostequerie after another: a dirt-encrusted doughnut; a variety of cigarette butts and one particularly repellant cigar end; the remains of a chicken drumstick; a crushed mini Snickers bar, possibly stuck to the cement since Hallowe'en; a condom; what looks like a granola bar but could be something else entirely; a puddle of Red Bull, and many used Kleenexes. Oh, and a child's mitten, which apparently appeals to Pretzel because of the frozen peanut butter on the thumb. This first foray into the urban jungle comes to a halt as Castle scoops up the puppy and carries him home.

"Wait 'til you get to Beckett's apartment," he says as they ride the elevator to the loft. "She has stuff in her refrigerator that's even more disgusting than some of the things you found. You're going to love it there."

Once they're inside, he shows Pretzel where the water bowl is, along with his three beds (living room, office, Castle's bedroom), and starts tossing a squeaky-toy pretzel for him to chase. As he throws the toy, picks it up, throws, picks it up, throws, Castle reflects on how lucky he is that the puppy spent the last few weeks in a veterinarian's office. The staff not only housebroke him but made sure that he was socialized, so two possible objections that Beckett might raise when he introduces Pretzel will be quashed before they can leave her lips. Oh, her lips. If he had his way, he'd never leave her lips.

Corniness has returned and he doesn't care.

The next step is to give Beckett the present that he has found for her, something that he hopes will incline her mind to pet ownership without her realizing it. It had taken him some time to track it down. He didn't want a paperback, which is the only available format at the moment. He wanted a sturdy hardbound copy like the one that she must have read while lying on her bed or in a hammock or on her back in the grass or curled up with her mother on the sofa. A copy that could have stood up to grubby, scrabbling hands turning the pages a thousand times.

Two days ago, he got it: a pristine copy for which he paid 75 dollars and would happily have forked over ten times that much. He opens the bottom drawer of his desk and takes it out. "See this, Pretzel?" he asks the dog, who looks exceptionally intelligent and attentive, qualities that match those of his future owner. "This is the book that started it all."

It's five o'clock, and if he has timed this as well as he hopes, she'll be there, and available. He makes the call.

"Castle?"

"It is I, Beckett."

"I can tell you've been running with the literati today."

"Oh, right," he confirms, glancing at Pretzel, who is looking anything but literary as he scratches his ear, yawns noisily, and sticks his head inside Castle's recently removed shoe. "And it's made me incredibly thirsty. Any chance you want to get a beer?"

"Uh, sure. Just wrapping up a few things. You have any place in mind?"

"How about Hair of the Dog, on Orchard?"

"Seriously? A sports bar? You?"

"I like the name."

"You ever actually been there, Castle?"

"No, not exactly."

"Not exactly? What does that mean, exactly?"

"Never been there. Just like the name and it's not far from here."

"Well, it's noisy and full of drunken grad students playing beer pong. Any other ideas?"

"How about my place?"

"You trying to lure me to your apartment?"

"Not this time, Beckett." He looks at Pretzel, who looks back. "I meant my bar, not the loft."

"Okay."

"Want to meet me there at six?"

"Yup. Bye."

Good, she's taken the bait. He had never had any intention of meeting her anywhere but the Old Haunt and he's busy congratulating himself when he hears the front door open. "Alexis?"

"Hi, Dad."

The next sound is of puppy toenails on bare wood, followed by puppy yelps as Pretzel slides to a stop in front of Alexis. She squeals, which ups the ante on yelping. "Dad!" she says, as her father approaches. "He's even cuter in person."

"Dogson."

"Whatever."

He spends the next half hour with his daughter and the dog, issues care and feeding instructions, and leaves for the bar. He wants to get there before Beckett, to set things up. He's wrapped the book and put it in a bag.

When he arrives, he tells the bartender that Detective Beckett should be there any minute, and asks him to send her down to his office, which is where he's heading. He gets two wine glasses and a corkscrew from the cabinet behind his desk, pulls out a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and opens it, and carries everything to the coffee table in front of his sofa. He has just set everything up when he hears her heels on the staircase.

"Hi, Beckett," he says, raising the bottle but covering the label with his hand when she comes through the door. "Just letting this breathe for a few minutes."

"Hi, Castle," she responds, unwrapping her scarf as she does, then depositing it, her coat and bag on a chair. "Thanks. This is a nice way to end the week."

"Friday always calls for a celebration in my book." He puts the wine down, label turned away from her. "And speaking of books, I have a little something for you." He reaches over the side of the sofa to retrieve the shopping bag he had dropped there.

She looks a little surprised. "Really? Thanks, Castle. What's the occasion?"

"Other than it being Friday? Isn't that enough?"

"Well, we've spent a lot of Fridays together and I don't recall your ever marking it by giving me a present."

"Good point. Perhaps I'll just start a new tradition." Oh, boy, is that going to scare her off? No, she actually looks pleased. A little shy, but pleased. Thank God. "Anyway, here you go. Open up."

She unties the bow that is holding the two paper handles together and takes out the book, which is covered in glossy red paper and bound with a white satin ribbon. She opens the present exactly as he knew she would, first wrapping the ribbon into a neat coil, then running a fingertip carefully under piece of Scotch tape. The instant she begins to peel back the paper, he moves his eyes from her fingers to her face. He's rewarded with an incandescent smile.

"Oh, Castle!"

He wonders if she knows that she is clutching the book to her cashmere-covered chest.

He smiles back. "Yeah?"

"Thank you. I tried to replace it, you know, um, afterwards, but I didn't want a flimsy paperback. Wasn't the same. Where on earth did you get this? "

"A book dealer I know had it."

Her eyes narrow. "A book dealer you know? Just happened to have this very copy. Sure, Castle."

"Well, okay, I did have to ask around a little."

She smiles again. "Did you read it?"

"Oh, no. No. It's your book." God, please don't strike me dead for lying, he thinks. It's all in a good cause. Of course he's read it. He's read it at least ten times since it arrived and it has not escaped his notice that Pretzel is madly in love with a dachshund named Greta whom he tries to win over with presents. Yes, he's read it and he has it all but memorized. Hopes she doesn't dust the pages for prints.

"Do you mind if I do?"

"Why would I mind? Want to read it out loud to me? I'm a kid at heart, you know. And I love dogs."

She chuckles. "Okay, I'll read aloud to you. And you have to look at the pictures while I do because that's half the fun."

Oh, more than half the fun, he thinks. She'll have to sit very close to him for this. And she does. As she starts to read, stopping to exclaim over various lines, written or drawn, he semi casually extends his arm over the back of the sofa, where it might semi casually drop over her shoulder. It does.

When she finishes, she turns her head and looks at him with the expression of a little girl who just got everything she wanted for her birthday.

"What do you know?" he says. "Pretzel won over Greta by rescuing her when she's in trouble."

"Yeah," she says, ducking her head.

"I like the boy-gets-girl books."

"Me, too," she says, her head still down.

Castle waits a minute and clears his throat. "I think this calls for some wine," he says as he fills both glasses. After setting the bottle down so that label is directly in front of her, he passes her a glass. "Cheers!"

"Cheers," she clinks her glass against his and takes a sip. "Mmm, this is nice." Her eyes go to the bottle. "Oh, my God, are you kidding me? You found a wine called Dachshund?"

"I did. Seemed appropriate, you know, to go with Pretzel. And Greta. Oh, that reminds me. I forgot our snack." He jumps up from the sofa, rattles around behind her and returns with a bowl of pretzels. "Here you go."

"Thanks. And I'm sure it was completely accidental, your finding that wine."

"Totally." He grins. "I bought a case."

"A case."

"A case."

"You trying to get me drunk?" she asks, poking him gently in the ribs.

He takes a chance and looks right into her eyes. "Is that a possibility?"

"I dunno, Castle. You tell me."

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you for all your support for this shaggy—uh, smooth-coat—dog story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

They're at the bottom of the second bottle when Beckett, licking an errant drop of wine from the corner of her mouth, leans in toward Castle until they're almost nose-to-nose. "Know what I think?"

"No, what are you thinking?" He thinks he might know what she's thinking, but he's not sure. Maybe he's just hopeful. He's a hopeful kind of guy, after all.

"I think this is like _Forbidden Planet_."

"What?" Wow, he really doesn't know what she's thinking. His brain must be a little fuzzy.

"Last winter."

"What?" He can smell the wine on her breath. It smells fantastic. She smells fantastic.

"Are you suffering from echo, echolalalalee. Echolalia, Castle?"

"What?"

"See that's the third time you said that. You said 'what?' three times. Echolalia."

"Um, okay. Well, why is this like _Forbidden Planet_?"

"Last winter."

" _Forbidden Planet_ last winter."

"You told me you hadn't seen it but you really had. That was a big fib. You'd seen it a lot. A lot of times." He can tell that she's trying to look stern, but she's actually smiling as she draws back just enough to pick up her copy of _Pretzel_. "See, I think this is like that," she says, waving the book and then leaning in even closer than she had been, so close that he can't bring her face into focus. "I think you read this before, Castle."

"What?"

"That's four times. You said 'what?' four times. C'mon, fess up, you read it, didn't you?"

Why wouldn't he fess up with a mouth like that just a tongue tip away? "It's true. I did. I read it."

"Aha! I knew it. How come you read it? You can tell me."

Oh, he'll tell her anything now if she'll stay here. The password to every one of his bank accounts, brokerage accounts, and security systems. His most embarrassing adolescent moment. Anything. But maybe not right away. "Because it has such a cute cover, with, you know, Pretzel on it. How he, uh, stretches around the back. His backside is on the back, did you see?"

"I saw. I read this about a thousand times, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember." And until the fiery pits of hell consume me for having fibbed, I will remember just how gorgeous you are right this minute. That's what he really wants to say, but doesn't. All he can manage is, "That's more times than I did. Have. Have yet. Read it."

She's still there, hovering. "You can't tell a book by its cover, right, Castle? You know that. You write books and they have a naked woman on the cover. Me. Wait, not me. But sort of me."

She wrinkles her forehead and shakes her head. Her hair moves across his face, brushes his left cheek, then his nose, and then trails away over his right cheek. Damn. Gone. Oh, but she's still there. Here. In front of him.

"Whydja really read this book? A lot of times. Not a thousand though, yet."

He cannot tell a(nother) lie, so he finally, truly fesses up. "Because you love it."

Her eyes blink, hard. And then again. And then they look very soft, and he knows that even with all those muscles in her unbelievably fit body she must be softer than the soft cashmere sweater that he wishes she would take off.

"Beckett?" he whispers into her winy mouth.

"Yeah, Castle?"

"I would really, really like to kiss you."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Because I would really, really like to kiss you back. If you kiss me."

He doesn't wait, not after waiting almost three years. Just grabs her and kisses her with every bit of everything he can summon, and then a little more that bubbles up from somewhere he can't even identify.

And what does she do? Exactly the same.

"That was even better," he finally says, still getting his breath.

"Than what?"

"Than the one last year, on January 26th."

"You mean the, uh, the fake one. When we had to distract that guard?"

"Wasn't fake."

She chuckles. "You're telling me."

"Wish you'd told me then."

"On January 26th? And how the hell do you know the date, Castle?"

He pushes her hair off her forehead. "Brain burn. Never gonna forget it. That was some kiss, Beckett. Especially now that I know you weren't faking it."

She looks a little bit shy again, as if the affects of the wine might be wearing off. "Yeah. But—but you said this was better. You gonna remember this?"

"Aren't you?"

"Yes. Oh, yes." She presses her forehead into the center of his chest. "Castle?"

"Mmmhmm?"

"Are you drunk?" she asks, speaking directly into his sternum.

"Maybe around the edges."

"You have nice edges, Castle."

"I think you're drunk, Beckett."

"Not too drunk to notice your edges."

"You accusing me of edging?"

She snorts, and smacks him lightly on the bicep. Before he can respond, his phone goes off, the ringtone unmistakable. Shit. He wiggles until he can get the phone out of his pocket.

"Hi, Alexis."

Beckett can't hear what his daughter is saying, but it's obvious from his end of the conversation, and his expression, that he's supposed to be at home.

"I'm so sorry. I'm on my way right now. Just lost track of the time, you know, talking shop with, uh, Beckett." He winces. "Reminiscing about old cases. See you in a few minutes."

"You have to go?" She hates herself for sounding forlorn, her head still lolling on his chest.

He puts his hand under her chin and tilts her head up. "I do. I hate it, but I do. What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Nothing."

"Want to do nothing with me, instead?"

"I'd rather do something with you, instead."

"You're definitely drunk. I'm driving you home."

"You can't. You're drunk. I'd have to arrest you. Handcuff you."

"That a promise?"

She snorts again, rolls away from him and stands up. "Time to go," she says, sadly.

Castle stands, too, and passes her the book. "Don't forget this," he says.

"Not a chance," she says, taking it, running her hand across the cover and then wrapping the red paper around it again before putting it in her bag. "While you're doing whatever you have to do with Alexis, I'm going to read this again."

He doesn't have to do anything with Alexis. She's going out and he has to take care of Pretzel, but there's no way he's telling Beckett. "For the thousand and oneth time?"

"Thousand and twooth. Thousand and oneth was when I read it to you."

To the (unexpressed) surprise and delight of both, they go up the stairs hand in hand. When they reach the top she lets go, but the moment they're in the cab, she takes his hand again.

"I'll walk you up," he says dreamily, as the car stops in front of her building.

"No, you need to get home. See you tomorrow, Castle." She kisses him quickly, and gets out. Halfway to the door, she turns and waves to him.

"It's a date, Beckett," he calls through the window.

"I guess it is," she says quietly, with a smile, as the car turns the corner.

When Castle comes through his front door, he is greeted by a full-body wiggling dog and a mildly annoyed daughter, who has already put on her coat.

"Dad."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I hope you're not late."

"Not, too." And with that, and a quick kiss on the cheek, she leaves to meet her friends and he's left with an excited puppy and a whole evening to plan tomorrow's date. Wow, he hadn't seen that coming.

Wow, she hadn't seen that coming. She's home, too excited to eat, but smart enough not to drink any more wine. She makes herself a cup of very strong coffee. She has a whole evening to think about tomorrow. What she should wear, what they might do. Stretched out on the sofa, she picks up her phone, puts it down. Picks it up again. Is it too soon to call him? Maybe text? What are you, twelve? she asks herself. Yeah, she thinks.

He has made himself a cup of very strong coffee and is sitting at his desk. Pretzel is on his lap, gnawing on a toy, and Castle has his phone in his hand. Is it too soon to call her? Maybe text? What are you, twelve? he asks himself. Yeah, he replies, happily. I'm twelve and I'm calling my girl. Wait, I'll text her. Be more nonchalant. Cool. Mr. Cool.

"Hi, Beckett."

She jumps when she feels the ping in her palm. Oh, thank God, he made the first move. Made the first move in his office too. Maybe a little provoked, she admits. "Hey, Castle."

"What time I should pick you up tomorrow?"

"I dunno. Maybe first thing in the morning?"

"Best time ever."

She has to stop before she does something really stupid. "Night, Castle."

"Night, Beckett. Tomorrow."

He checks the time. It's 9:52. "We got work to do, Pretzel," he says, as he gets up and puts the dog on the floor. "Follow me, buddy."

In the kitchen, Castle retrieves the frozen dough that he had made a few days earlier and pops it in the microwave to defrost it. "I was going to do this later," he tells the dog, "but now is better." He turns on the oven and dusts the counter with flour before he rolls out the dough. "See this?" he asks Pretzel, holding up a dachshund-shaped cookie cutter that he had taken from a drawer. "I bought it the other day, in your honor."

By eleven o'clock, there are thirty cookies cooling on a wire rack. "Hey, Pretzel," Castle says. "I know you're not supposed to have sweets, but a little bit won't hurt. It can be our secret. We won't tell the vet."

The dog appears to agree.

"You know this isn't cannibalism, right? It's just a cookie that we're eating here, not an actual dachshund." He breaks off a bit and stoops down to let the puppy have it from his hand. "You like that? Okay, time for our bedtime stroll."

They walk around the block twice before coming back in. The cookies are room temperature now, so Castle gets a small bakery box from an under-counter cabinet, lines it with wax paper, and carefully fills it with two dozen cookies. He scoops up the puppy and takes him to the bedroom. "Time to get in your crate, Pretzel. I'll be right back." Castle has learned not to turn to look at him when he leaves the room, so he's not pierced to the heart by the piteous gaze.

A few minutes later, the squawk of the intercom jolts Beckett from a particularly enjoyable, highly erotic daydream. She stomps to the door, knowing it's that jerk from 2C who leaves his lobby-door key at home at least once a week. Wishing, not for the first time, that she had a doorman, she presses the TALK button. "Who is it?"

She pushes LISTEN and waits until there's a staticky one-word response. "Me."

Right, she mutters, using the OPEN button to let him in. She has barely gotten back to her sofa, where she hopes to resume her very satisfying daydream, before she hears a knock. Jesus, he forgot his apartment key, too. She's going to give it back to him. She's tired of having to be his mother. She wrenches the door open, ready to hand him his stupid key and tell him off, in her best kick-ass detective voice.

Except it's not the jerk from 2C.

"Castle?"

He looks as happy as she's ever seen him. "Ready for our date?"

"It's, it's—" she looks at her watch.

"Twelve oh one. I got here at twelve on the dot, but had to walk up."

She's gaping. Smiling and gaping at the same time.

"You said first thing in the morning, and it is. First thing." He taps the face of her watch and holds out the shiny cardboard box. "Made you these."

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you all: readers, reviewers, followers and favoriters!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

No sooner has Beckett taken the box from Castle than he produces a small shopping bag. "Can't have cookies without milk," he says, tilting the bag to show her the quart bottle. "Figured you probably didn't have any."

Beckett is utterly flustered. "Right. Yes. No. I mean, I didn't have any, but now I do." She looks down at the box, which she is grasping by the red-and-white striped string that's wrapped around it. "You baked cookies for me? When?"

"Just now. Listen, may I come inside? Call me crazy, but I think it would be nice for both of us to be in the same room for our date."

"You are crazy, but all right." She moves back to open the door wide, and he comes through.

"Beckett!" He points to her feet. "You have bunny slippers?"

And just like that, she unflusters, and tosses her head. "You saying they're too informal for our date?"

He looks her over carefully, from pony-tailed head to bunny-slippered toes, his head cocked to one side. "No, I'd say they're perfect. They complement your adorable pajamas, too."

"My adorable pajamas?" she says, glancing down as if she expects to find herself inexplicably dressed in Dr. Dentons.

"Well, the top part. _The Runaway Bunny_ tee shirt part. Goes with the slippers."

She ricochets to a flustered state, almost dropping the box of cookies as she tries to cross her arms over her chest. "Oh, God. I forgot that I put that on. Please. Please promise you won't tell anyone that's what I sleep in."

"Sleep in? Why Detective Beckett, I just got here. I had no idea you were so forward."

She laughs at that, laughs so hard that she can't quite control what she's saying. She's beyond grateful to him for putting her at ease. "I could kiss you for that, Castle."

"You already did. Quite a lot, in fact. But I wouldn't mind if you did it again."

She stops laughing and looks at him for a long moment. "I think we should have our milk and cookies."

"Okay," he says, taking off his coat and hanging it on a hook by the door. "We could read _Pretzel_ again while we do that. Or maybe _Runaway Bunny_."

"I don't have my copy anymore," she blurts out. "It blew up, too."

Before she has a chance to feel wistful, he says, "Doesn't matter. _Pretzel_ is more suitable for the occasion anyway."

She looks a question at him, but he just gestures towards her kitchen. "You have a plate? And some glasses?"

"I may not be as…domesticated…as you, Castle," she says, "but I believe I can come up with a plate. And two glasses. That match, even." She opens a cabinet door, and holds up a pair of glasses with a flourish. "Now hand me that box. I want to see what you made. Chocolate chip, I bet."

"Totally cold, Beckett," he says, plunking down on a kitchen stool.

"Really? Okay. Peanut butter?"

He shakes his head.

"Oatmeal raisin?"

"You're getting colder. Why don't you untie the string and see."

She sets the box down properly, and undoes the string as carefully as she had untied the ribbon on the book a few hours earlier. When she lifts the top of the box and bends it back, she gasps. "Gingerbread! Pretzel-shaped gingerbread! These are incredible." She lifts one out and holds it up, examining it, turning it over in her hand. She bites the cookie in two and chews carefully, then swallows. "Wow," she says, smiling at him. "Wow, Castle."

He can't remember ever having seen that expression in her eyes, a mix of astonishment, delight and sparkle. It occurs to him, in his gooey state, that probably no one has made cookies for her in years. That such a simple gesture should open up such a complex person is painfully touching. Afraid that his voice might shake and give him away, he waits for her to eat the other half before he says anything.

"So, you like 'em, huh?"

"Oh, I do." She fills the plate with them, stacking a dozen with great care. "Here, have one," she says, offering him the plate. "You want some milk, too, right?"

"Mfcrs." He swallows. "Sorry. I meant, of course."

"You want to have these in the living room? More comfy than that hard stool."

He slides off, picks up his glass, and follows her to the sofa. And for the next 45 minutes they just talk easily, laughing and punctuating their sentences with the crunch of a cookie or the faint slurp of milk.

"That was a perfect bedtime snack, if I do say so." Castle stands up, takes their glasses and the empty plate to the sink, and walks towards the door.

"You going somewhere, Castle?" She looks confused again, as she rises from the sofa.

"Home to bed."

"You're going home?"

"Yup. This is our first date, you know. Don't want to rush into anything."

"Rush? Oh." She's standing so close to him, and looks so small, that he wonders if he could just button her inside his coat with him and they could stay that way for a long time.

"You okay, Beckett?"

"Yes, I just." She's looking at the floor. "I thought our date would be. I dunno."

"Oh," he says, taking her face in his hands. "You must be thinking about our second date."

"Second?"

"Yeah. At eleven. I'm picking you up at eleven, which gives you about nine and a half hours to get ready." He gives her a quick but very thorough kiss. "Night."

"Night, Castle." She closes the door behind him and puts her fingers to her lips. "Night," she says again, before turning to go to the kitchen for one more cookie. She brushes her teeth, props up the gingerbread against her bedside lamp, and gets into bed. "Night, Pretzel," she says. "Oh, my God, I'm talking to a cookie."

It's almost two o'clock in the morning when Castle gets home, lets Pretzel out of his crate. and gets down to play with him. "Told ya I'd be right back. I'd never leave you in here for more than four hours, you know." He scratches the dog behind the ears. "Want to hear about my date? I think it went really well." He replays some of the conversation that he and Beckett had had, and when he winds down, Pretzel licks his hand. "Taste good? I bet it tastes of your gingerbread and Beckett, which is a pretty great combo, let me tell you." He yawns. "Sorry, buddy, got to go to bed. Big day ahead." Five minutes later, the dog is curled on the duvet next to the knee of his human. Both are asleep.

At ten fifty-nine Castle is standing in Beckett's hallway, counting down from sixty. He has seventeen seconds to go when she opens the door.

"Morning, Castle," she says.

"Oh! Morning, Beckett. You have on, uh, shoes."

"I do. Good for you, Junior Detective. You coming in or going to stand out there, gathering dust?"

"Definitely coming in."

"Would you like to take off your coat?"

"Trying to undress me already? I thought we went over this."

"Well, it's our second date. I thought the rules might have changed."

"Point taken. But I'm taking you out, so there's no time for undressing of any kind. You ready?"

His coat is unbuttoned, so she can see that he's wearing a shirt, pullover sweater and jeans. Since she's dressed almost identically, she figures she's good to go. "Yup. Just grabbing my bag."

And they're out the door. As soon as they're in the street, she reaches for his hand. "Where we going?"

"Brunch. Little German place. Incredible sausage. Good, here's a cab." He asks the driver to take them to Seventh Avenue and Thirty-fourth.

"Interesting choice of crummy neighborhood, Castle," she says when they're almost there. "You know something I don't?"

"Yup. You'll have to torture out of me while we have brunch. Ah, here we are."

Beckett looks around, somewhat puzzled, since she sees no sign of a little German place. He tugs on her hand.

"Right over here."

"Here" turns out to be a hot dog cart five yards to their left. "We'll take two, please," Castle says to the man wielding the tongs. "With everything. And two pretzels, extra mustard. And two waters." He hands over a fifty for the food, tells the stunned man to keep the change, and nods to a vacant bench nearby. "Let's sit," he says happily. "You don't mind eating outside, do you, even though it's twenty-four degrees? Food like this should be savored in the fresh air, don't you think?"

Beckett has been silent throughout. When she finally opens her mouth, she promptly closes it. And then opens it again. "Fresh air? We're sitting right by two idling buses."

"Authentic New York City experience," he says. "Have a hot dog."

After the third bite, she looks sideways at him, then turns so that her knees are pressed hard against his thighs. "You a friend of the chef, Castle?"

"Mr. Sabrett? Old, old friend, Beckett."

"Thought so." She finishes the hot dog, and starts in on the soft pretzel. "Hmm."

"Hmm? What's that? Something wrong with your pretzel?"

"No, it's perfect. It's just that I have detected a bizarre theme."

"Theme?" he asks, oozing innocence.

"Yeah, theme. _Pretzel_ the book. Dachshund wine. Dachshund-shaped gingerbread. Hot dogs. Soft pretzels. Sounds like a theme to you?"

"Sounds like circumstantial evidence to me."

"Huh. I'm going to figure this out, you know." She prods him with her knee. "Any chance we're getting dessert?"

"Every chance, but it'll have to wait. Come with me." He gets off the bench and pulls her up.

"Where are we going?"

"Right there," he says, pointing to a marquee opposite Penn Station.

"The Hotel Pennsylvania?" She stops walking. "Boy, Castle. You really know how to romance a girl."

"My intentions are purely honorable." He's bouncing on his feet. "You're going to love this, I promise."

"I think I'd like dishonorable intentions a lot more," she mutters, rolling her paper napkin into a ball and tossing it into the dented wire trash can.

When they're in the lobby, he reaches into his coat pocket, takes out two tickets and consults them. "Okay, we take this elevator to the eighteenth floor, the Penn Top Ballroom."

This calm utterance also brings Beckett to a halt. "Ballroom? Are you kidding me? I left my ball gown at home, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Won't need it. C'mon." He nearly drags her to the elevator, then down a corridor to the ballroom where the floor is filled not with dancers, but roughly a hundred dachshunds of every possible kind. "What do you think, Beckett? It's the Knickerbocker Dachshund Club Dog Show. Happens every year. We're gonna meet all the dogs and everything."

She is almost incandescent with joy as she claps her hands. "How did you even know about this?"

"Looked it up," he says, matter-of-factly, thought there was nothing matter of fact about it. He had hunted this event down like a, well, hound.

"It's magical," she says. "Let's go see the dogs."

Two hours later, after she has spoken with half the trainers, breeders and owners there, he's still surprised by just how excited she is. "I should have brought you here ages ago," he says.

"You didn't know I had a thing for dachshunds ages ago," she replies. "And besides—"

That's it. She says nothing more, just bites her lip, which is either a very good or a very bad sign. "And besides?" he prompts at last.

"And besides." She takes a deep breath. "And besides, we weren't dating ages ago."

He wonders if hearts can explode naturally. His feels as if it's about to, and he doesn't want to die now, even the most joyful death, which is what his would be if it happened this instant.

They make their way out and down to the lobby. "Where to now?" Beckett asks.

"I dunno. Want to get dessert?"

"Yeah, I do. And I know just the place."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise. My turn for that."

"Do I have to close my eyes?"

"Wait until we get in the cab."

He slides in first while she waits outside, motioning to the driver to open his window so she can quietly give him an address. Once she's settled in the back seat she says, "Close 'em, Castle,and don't open up until I tell you."

For once, he does exactly as instructed. He thought it would drive him crazy, but it doesn't. With his eyes closed, he can concentrate on how she smells, and how it feels to have her hand on his knee.

When they reach wherever it is they're going, she reminds him not to open his eyes, and helps him out of the car. They walk a few steps and come to a door. "Hold you nose," she says.

"Why? Are you taking me somewhere weird? We going to see alligators in the sewer or something?"

"Nope. I just don't want to give you any sensory clues ahead of time."

"Ooh, I like the sound of that, Beckett."

"Good. Now hold your nose, too."

She guides him to an elevator and after a very short if creaky ride, down a hallway. Wherever they are, she has a key, because he hears her turn a lock, and then she pulls him inside and closes the door behind them. "Stand right here. Now let go of your nose but hold your breath while I get your coat off you. When I'm done, hold your nose again, okay?"

"Yes, sir. Ma'am."

She removes his coat and then walks a short distance away. He hears a slight rustle of paper, but nothing else that he can identify, and then hears her walk back to him. "Open your mouth, Castle. And then you can let go of your nose and open your eyes."

Goddamn, if he isn't standing in the middle of her apartment with a gingerbread dachshund sticking out of his mouth. He chews it, swallows and smiles. "Delicious, Beckett."

"You through savoring that part of dessert, Castle?"

"Is there more to savor?"

"Oh, yeah."

"What?"

"This," she says, and kisses him as indecently as possible for two people who are standing up with nothing to support them but their legs. Or in her case, one, since the other is now miraculously wrapped around his waist.

 **A/N** One chapter to go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** Okay, I miscalculated. There will be one more chapter after this.

For a big man who often seems to be something of a klutz, Castle moves with surprising grace, even while carrying her in an awkward position, with the additional distraction of her tongue moving acrobatically around in his mouth. He manages to walk them across the living room, through a short hall, and into her bedroom, where they topple together, one heated mass, onto the quilt that covers her bed.

He's gotten her sweater off and is working on her blouse, while she's concentrating on ridding him of his jeans. The belt is somewhere on the floor, she has undone the button, and now she's tugging the denims down with one hand while her other is busy with what the zipper set free.

"Get these damn things off," she says, pulling hard on the belt loops. "Wait, what's this?" She puts her fingers in the front pocket, which has two immediate results: an increase in his arousal and—"A bone? In your pants?"

"Gotta brush up on those terms, Beckett," he says, temporarily halting his very satisfying exploration of the soft skin below her ear. "It's not a bone, it's a bo—"

"Bone!" she repeats, holding up a Milk-Bone dog biscuit between her thumb and index finger. "What are you doing with a dog biscuit?"

He grabs it from her and tosses it several feet away from the bed. "Later, Beckett."

"But—"

He silences her in one almost seamless move—flipping her onto her back, reaching into her jeans, running his very soft hand under her microscopic underwear and dragging two fingers in such a way that her silence gives way to a delectable, musical and protracted moan. A string of expletives follows, in the filthiest, most imaginative combinations he has ever heard, culminating in some impassioned demands that he is insanely happy to accommodate.

One sweaty, exhausting, exhilarating hour later, Beckett is sprawled on top of him, rubbing her thumb across his cheekbone. "Hell of a second date, Castle," she says. "Hope I didn't break any of your dating rules. You know, go too fast, something like that."

"I think the rulebook just went out the window," he says, and laughs.

"That's not the only thing that went out the window. Or somewhere near it." She raises one perfect eyebrow and holds his gaze.

"What?"

"The biscuit, Castle. The dog biscuit, which I can see from here. It landed on the window sill."

If ever there were a time to think fast on his feet—okay, his back—this is it. Ah, deflection. Deflection, but not a suspicious complete change of subject. That should work.

"You know, Beckett, I'd be a great pet. I'm well-bred, just ask my mother. Well-read, anyway. Extremely well-groomed. Completely housebroken. Never bite except love bites."

"Good to know, especially since you just nipped me a few times."

"I come when I'm called, and most important? I haven't been neutered."

"I could tell." She can't help laughing, and neither can he. "Let me ask you, do you tricks for treats?

"Oh, yeah, you should see me roll over and beg. I might do that at any moment."

"You're not so good at sit and stay, Castle."

"I'll sit and stay here with you, anytime."

She rests her chin on top of her hands, which are lying flat against his chest. "Castle."

"Hmmm?"

"The dog biscuit."

"Oh."

"Why are you carrying around a dog biscuit?"

"I'm not."

"Splitting hairs here, Castle. You were until I removed it from your pants pocket and you hurled it across the room."

"Well," he says, stalling for time by looking at her ceiling and trying but failing to think of a credible reason to ask her something about it. "For emergencies. You know, suppose a slavering beast of a Doberman chases us down a dark alley and corners us against a chain-link fence. I could give it a biscuit and while it was chewing it we could escape."

"There you go," she says solemnly. "Did you just think of that?"

"Just, you know, since the case with Royal and everything. Made me realize we might run into dogs at any time. There was that dog who belonged to the guy who lost his memory, remember him? The case with the murdered gallery owner a couple of years ago? I could have cheered up that sweet dog if I'd had an emergency biscuit in my pocket."

"So, you're practicing canine altruism now, is that it?"

"Something like that."

"Uh-huh." She looks into his eyes until he finally blinks. "You know I'm going to get to the bottom of this, Castle."

He uses that as a cue to squeeze her butt. "Have I told you that you have a gorgeous bottom, Beckett?"

"In a more colorful way, yes, I believe you have. About half an hour ago."

"Speaking of time," he says, smiling. "You doing anything Tuesday?"

"Why, Rick," she says coyly, fluttering her lashes. "Are you asking me out on a date? A third date?"

"Tuesday is two days away. It could be our fifth yes, I'm asking you to go out with me on Tuesday. You know what day it is?"

"Other than it's Tuesday? No."

"Oh, God," he rolls his eyes. "Am I the only romantic here? It's Valentine's Day." He pauses. "Will you be my Valentine?"

She pauses even longer before asking, softly, "Aren't I already?"

"You are. Hey, are you hungry?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, I don't have, um, much to eat here. Except for that dog biscuit on the window sill."

"How about cookies?"

"Oh, yes. Got some of those. A guy I know made them for me."

"I'll race you."

"You're on, Castle," she says, rolling off him. She lets him run past her, then turns around and jumps back into bed. "Beat ya!" she shouts from her rumpled nest.

He's halfway to the kitchen, but goes back. "Did you use ninja skills just now? Because you definitely did not pass me, pass go or collect 200 cookies, so how did you beat me?"

She waves a cookie over her head in triumph. "See?"

"Where did you get that?"

"It was on the bedside table. I put it there last night so." She doesn't finish the sentence, just sits, blushing, with the gingerbread in her hand.

Castle is on all fours, advancing towards her from the bottom of the bed. "So? You put it there last night so? So?" He grabs it and eats half in one bite.

"So I could look at it when I went to sleep." She picks at a thread on the hem of the sheet. "Been a long time since anyone made me a cookie, Castle. Especially one shaped like a dog."

His heart melts. He pulls her to him and hugs her as hard as he can without cracking her ribs."I'm gonna make you cookies every day, Beckett."

"Maybe not every day," she says into his neck. "Don't want to be the fat lady at the circus."

"Fat lady at the NYPD."

"Same thing," she says, and they both laugh until they run out of breath. Eventually they order Chinese food, which they eat in bed, and then he leaves, claiming that he's taking his mother to some off-Broadway post-performance fundraiser when in fact he's going home so that his mother, who has been dog sitting, can go out.

Tuesday arrives too soon and not soon enough. It has finally occurred to Castle that Pretzel isn't his. He's Beckett's. No more walks around town; no more rolling around on the floor and playing tug of war with a sock; no more conversations, no more having a warm, furry, loving creature fall asleep behind his knee or pressed against the small of his back.

And then it also occurs to him, in a burst of realistic optimism, that when he stays over at Beckett's—because that is definitely happening—he could be falling asleep with a couple of loving creatures. One has two magnificent long legs capable of doing things that make him gasp, and the other has four very short ones that are nonetheless adorable.

Since Alexis and his mother have dates on Valentine's Day, he has invited Beckett to the loft for an elegant dinner. He's ready way ahead of time, and spends the half hour before Beckett is due to arrive telling Pretzel everything he hadn't already about his soon-to-be-owner. "I'm going to put you in your crate for a little while," Castle says to the puppy. "When it's time for the surprise, I'll come get you, okay?" He knows the dog understands every word.

The plan is to bring out Pretzel after dessert, but they're only halfway through their salad when Castle takes his napkin off his lap and drops it next to his plate. "I can't wait," he says, as he stands up and walks towards his bedroom, leaving Beckett with nothing but a confused expression and a forkful of arugula.

Castle gets the puppy from his crate, puts on his halter—complete with a heart-shaped tag engraved with PRETZEL on one side and Beckett's phone number on the other—and clips on his leash. "Here we go," he whispers, as he scoops him up.

He returns to the table, uses his free hand to drag his chair next to hers, and sits down. "Katherine Beckett," he says, "may I present Pretzel Beckett? I think he might like to kiss your hand, and then put his head on your lap. I know I would, and our taste in almost everything is the same."

Castle would be willing to bet the royalties of all past, present and future Nikki Heat books that Beckett's eyes have never been that big. "Happy Valentine's Day," he says, as he puts the puppy on her thighs.

She looks down at the dog, then up at him. Repeats the motion, and then repeats it again. "Pretzel?" she says.

"Pretzel Beckett," Castle says, emphasizing the last name. She remains wordless. "He's yours. Do you want to ask me anything about him?"

"Ask?"

"Okay, he's a rescue, from Akron, Ohio, the first city to have a police car. Eighteen ninety-nine. Bet you didn't know that. He's four months old and housebroken and in perfect health and has all his shots. He likes to sleep on his right side or curled up, sometimes with one ear sort of flipped over his head. He thinks he is a retriever but he's really a dachshund. He has a dog walked named Fred who will come to your apartment twice a day to take him out and play with him. He is also enrolled in Puppy Parade, where he can spend up to twenty hours a week hanging out with other dogs, going swimming, things like that. Kind of like camp, only without arts and crafts since even though he is a totally amazing dog he doesn't have opposable thumbs. And you know his name is Pretzel, right? Which by the way is a food he loves but shouldn't have very often and you should scrape the salt off first."

"He's from Akron?"

With all the things he just told her, that's what stuck? "Yeah, I flew out and got him a while ago."

She looks down at her lap. "He's mine?"

"Yeah," Castle says, squeezing her knee. "And I think he's already at home with you. Look at him sacked out there."

She looks up into Castle's eyes with a watery smile that makes him want to kiss her under her eyes. "He's mine? You got him for me? A dog?"

"Not _a_ dog for you, _the_ dog for you. Pretzel. You guys are the perfect pair."

"You mean, like you and me?"

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Beckett and Pretzel had left an hour ago. He had driven them to her apartment because it wasn't just the dog who was leaving, but the crate, beds, bowls, toys, balls, puppy gate, food, treats, blanket, sweaters, halters, leashes, and the all-important box of poop bags.

When he'd kissed her goodbye at her door, he'd said, "I wish I'd done this years ago."

"I wasn't ready years ago."

"For a dog?"

"For you or a dog."

And then he had kissed her again, and gone home.

Now he's lonely, rattling around the empty loft. He goes to his office, sits at his desk and looks at the empty space where one of Pretzel's beds used to be. He's thinking: who knew? Who knew that something so small, something that cost him next to nothing, could change everything? Although, now that he considers what he carried into her place, he realizes that "cost him next to nothing" is perhaps inaccurate. Especially since there was also air fare, the rental car, the vet bill and the donation to an animal charity. But it was worth every penny. He'd have paid ten times, a hundred times more, to see her joy, her transformative, overwhelming happiness.

He's wondering how to deal with the odd combination of sadness and euphoria that he's experiencing when his phone pings with an incoming text.

"Hey, Castle, are you awake?"

"Of course I'm awake."

"Can you come over?"

Can he come over, is she kidding? "Of course."

"Good."

He stops texting and calls her. "Beckett? Is everything all right? Are you having trouble with Pretzel?"

"Everything's fine, he's perfect. It's just that—just come over, okay?"

"I'm coming. Bye."

The gods are kind: the elevator is on his floor, and there's a taxi in front of his building, so it's only a few minutes before he's ringing her buzzer.

She opens the door, dressed in an NYPD tee shirt, leggings and socks. He makes a mental note to buy her some dachshund PJs. Surely they exist somewhere. Or he could have some made. Would that be going overboard? Nah. Even it were, she'd look adorable in dachshund PJs. That settles it.

But before either of them can speak, Pretzel flings himself at Castle, who picks him up and welcomes licks all over his face. He feels Beckett tugging on his sleeve. "Come in."

"I'm in, I'm in," he says, still laughing at the squirmy puppy but sensing a change in the air.

"Oh, Castle," she says, stopping a few feet away from. Just three small syllables, but they seem to bear more sorrow than a ten-minute lamentation.

He transfers Pretzel to the crook of his arm. "What?" he says, matching her sorrow with his worry.

"He really loves you."

"Yeah." He smiles. "He loves you, too."

"But look at _you_ , Castle. _You_. I can tell how much you miss him already. I've known him for about four hours and I'm already so attached. But you? You had him for days and days and you bonded. It's breaking my heart to see how much you miss him."

"Is that what this is about? Here," he says, drawing her close and then wrapping his arms around her so the dog is contentedly trapped between his chest and hers. "See what we've got here? A Pretzel sandwich. I bet I could market it. But let's go sit down for a minute."

They settle on the sofa, with the dog in between them. He looks at her, unwavering. "Can I tell you something, Beckett?"

"I think you can tell me pretty much anything, Castle."

"I know we've been together for only a few days, I mean together together, but I feel as though it's been that way for a long time. Working up to it, anyway. So unless I do something really unspeakable, you're going to see me a lot, right? Not just at the precinct a lot. I mean after-hours a lot, weekends a lot, mornings a lot. And that means I see Pretzel a lot, too."

"Um, yeah."

He reaches out and tugs off the soft elastic that's holding her pony tail, and lets her hair spill into his hand. "I wish that I'd taken a picture of you when I put him on your lap. Your face. It was as if everything fell away, all the terrible things in your life just disappeared right then, and you were nothing but joy. It was incredible. I would do anything to see that happiness in you every single day."

She tumbles into him, burying her face in his shoulder. He feels it getting damp.

"Beckett? Are you crying?"

She lifts her head up, and presses the heels of her hands against her cheekbones. "Yeah, but just because I'm happy. You know what's funny?"

"What?"

"It's because of a book. Just like before."

He's not entirely sure what she's saying, so he asks. "A book?"

"Our working, uh, relationship began because of a book, or books. And then you started writing books about us—sort of about us—" She stops and chuckles. "You know, maybe we should reenact that scene from _Heat Wave_."

"You don't have to ask twice."

"I won't. But then there's _Pretzel_. The book, I mean. That's really what got us here, isn't it?"

"I guess it is." He leans down and kisses Pretzel on the top of his head, and then stands up. "I'm going home now."

"Home?" She looks horrified. "You just got here."

"I want Pretzel to get used to this place, too, so I'm going to leave you two alone. Just until tomorrow morning."

"You promise? You'll come over before work?"

"I promise."

True to his word, he's back the next morning at 5:30, carrying two cups of coffee and two cinnamon buns. She doesn't have to leave for the precinct until almost seven, so they can have breakfast here. When he gets to her door, he sees that it's cracked open, so he walks in. It's very dark, the only light given by a dozen small candles that are dotted around the living room. "Beckett?" he says. "Beckett?"

He hears them before he sees them, the noise of a pair of stiletto heels and the toenails on four little furry feet. They emerge together from the bedroom, she wearing nothing but killer heels and a lacy, bright red miminalist bra and matching thong. She's holding one end of the leash while Pretzel prances at the other.

"Morning, big boy," she says, oozing her way over to him. "Did you just call me?"

He thinks he might be strangling, and not just around the throat. "Uh, what?"

"I thought I heard you call my name." She begins to wind herself around his back, pressing her breasts against him.

"What are you doing, Beckett?" he says, more or less choking.

"Well, I thought it was obvious. I'm walking the dog."

He swallows, hard, one small part of his brain wondering how she is managing to keep Pretzel from leaping up while a much larger part is wondering how long it will take him to get that lingerie off her. "Hey," he says, his voice dipping down an octave. "Let me change places with the dog and you can walk _me_."

The lingerie? Off in less than a minute. Remarkably, she gets to work on time.

They get giddily through the rest of the winter, through spring and summer, and halfway through fall. It's late in the morning on Beckett's birthday. Castle and Pretzel, who is now a year old, went out a while ago and she is still in bed reading and rereading _Pretzel and the Puppies_ , the long-out-of-print sequel to _Pretzel_ about the adventures of Pretzel, Greta and their litter of five pups. She hadn't even known it existed until Castle gave it to her this morning with her coffee. She hears the loft's front door close, and a few minutes later Castle comes in.

"Where's Pretzel?" she asks.

"Oh, he got really soaking, so I dried him off and put him in the crate for a little bit. You know, so he won't get our bed all soggy."

"You planning to get back in her?" she asks, patting the spot next to her.

 **"** I want to take you on a birthday picnic."

"It's raining, Castle."

"I know, but I got a basket all ready and I thought we could have a picnic in bed instead. We can be naked. You can't do that in the park, at least not without being arrested, as I know from painful experience. Besides, it's your birthday and I want to see you in your birthday suit. What do you say? Can I go get the basket?"

"There good stuff in there?"

"Are you really asking? Please." He turns and goes out towards the kitchen, returning a minute or so later carrying a wicker basket with a heavy lid. Pretzel is at his feet, leaping around and barking.

"What do you have in there, anyway? He's going crazy."

Castle picks up the dog and holds him tight, then places the basket carefully on the bed. "Well, it's your birthday, so why don't you open it and see?"

She gives him The Look, but puts down her book and tentatively raises the lid of the basket. "Oh! Ohhh! Ohhhhh!" She reaches in and brings out, using both her hands, a tiny black-and-tan dachshund puppy. "Oh, Castle! Who's this?"

"Don't you know?" He puts Pretzel on the bed and lets him greet and sniff the puppy whom he had first met yesterday and who has been staying at Alexis's for the last 24 hours.

"No," she says, pressing her face into the puppy's neck.

"No idea?"

"A puppy," she says, her lips against the dog's ears.

"True. A nine-week-old puppy. She's Greta. You know Greta," he nods his head at her book. "She's the black-and-tan dachshund who Pretzel fell in love with and eventually won over. They had five puppies. Look in the basket, see the little collar?"

Beckett peeks in and finds it, with a heart-shaped tag that says GRETA on one side and has two cell-phone numbers on the other, hers and Castle's.

"She's for me?" Beckett is smiling like a kid. "For my birthday?"

"Yup, for you. But for Pretzel and me, too, I have to admit. In fact, if you look in the basket again, you'll find something else for you."

"It can't be better than this Castle. This is the best, she is the best. Aren't you, Greta, you little sweetheart." She kisses the puppy, who licks her on the nose in return.

"Okay, since you're so absorbed with her, I'll get it out. Hope you won't be disappointed." Kneeling on the bed next to her, he lifts out a box, about eight inches by eight inches, and passes it to her.

"What's this?"

"You know I don't tell secrets. This is a secret for you. Just open it. Give Greta to me so you can do it."

With some reluctance, she relinquishes the puppy and takes the box. As usual, she coils the ribbon—this one in deep purple satin—and then sets it on her nightstand. He grinds he teeth as she slowly removes the paper, then takes the lid off the box and raises her eyes to his.

"Another box?"

"Keep going."

"Are there a lot of these? Are you torturing me with this?"

"Only fair, seeing that you torture me by taking forever to untie a bow and get the paper off. At least the rest of the boxes aren't wrapped."

The sixth, which is very small, is the last. "This is it, right, Castle?"

"Oh, that's definitely it," he says.

She opens it. "Oh." Her hand has, of its own accord, gone to her cheek, which is already pink. "Oh. It's beautiful."

He takes the ring out and slips it on her finger. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes. Yes."

"Can we have five kids?"

She kisses him soundly. "Maybe." She kisses him again. "But not all at once."


End file.
